That’s what James Spedding did. It all started when he was kid and played in the woods a lot. It was then, over camp fires, that he started bashing metal and decided that that smithing was for him. Initially, he worked in IT but when redundancy offered breathing space, he and his wife sold their house and he latched onto a blacksmith who was keen to encourage new talent. James worked for him for a year or more, learing the basics. Then, husband and wife went on the road for a couple of years, living in a camper van around the UK and Ireland, with James working for various blacksmiths, picking up their particular skills. until he settled in north Norfolk, initially at a forge in Burnham Deedale.  But things went well and he outgrew that space, moving along the coast then to a bigger forge at Holkham Hall. That’s where he is now. Read all about him in my article in the August edition of The Countryman. 

Meanwhile, if you’ve imagined story telling combining with the most exquisite ceramic work – and again, I’m sure you have – you might want to look at my piece in Craft & Design on Paul Jackson. Those ceramics are so delicate that they’re  frightening, though his stories less so. 

And then, again for the artistically inclined, there is the Norwich Print Fair, taking place in St Margaret’s church, St Benedict’s Street, Norwich  from the 6th to the 19th September. Read all about that and its history in the September issue of  Suffolk/Norfolk Life.  

And then, back up on the coast, in the July issue of Anglia Afloat, you can get a little potted history of the Glaven Ports -  Blakeney, Cley and poor little  Wiveton, the latter once a busy place on a then much wider Glaven estuary. Now just  inland, Wiveton was robbed of its maritime connection by landgrabbing gentry who, in the 17th century, wanted the estuary for grazing and built a bank and sluice to keep the sea out. Just about everyone objected and eventually the Privy Council told the grabbers to remove the bank, which they did. But by then, the damage was done. Deprived of tidal scour, the erstwhile estuary had silted and never recovered. A couple of shots on the landscape gallery page show it as it is now, as meadow and reed bed with a later, 19th century, land grabbers’ bank on the line of the original which had laid the ground.  

Cley, as can be seen, was itself just down stream of both and, along with Blakeney, it laboured on until, as with Wells, (see below), ships became too big for their channels, although a few small sail traders continued to call through the 19th century until the railways came and mostly knocked that on the head.  

These days, all three villages are flinty picture postcards, with property prices fixed by those earning or inheriting elsewhere – many of them only occasionally in residence – while the locally born can only stay if there is a house in the family and non-seasonal work to support it.  It’s about time the Privy Council – or better still,  the House of Commons – had something to say about that, too, like making second homes need planning permission.   

Meanwhile, things are stirring along the coast at another place where the odd crab gets brought ashore. Windfarm developer, Scira, which has begun work on the Sheringham Shoal wind farm, has chosen Well-next-the-Sea as its service base. There was a time, in the days of sail, when this small north Norfolk port handled trade. Coal came in, barley went out and in the 15th ad 16th centures, fishing boats went all the way to Iceland. But things tapered down over the years as ships got too big for its creek and eventually the railway took most of the work. The port still saw the occasional coaster through the 20th century and the Dutch sail trader, Albatros, continued right into the ’90s, the last sail trader to work to the UK. It is now based at Wells quay as a floating pub in between the occasional sail training and corporate entertainment trip. 

But the Scira move, programmed as it is to continue through the decades of the wind farm’s life, will put new life, not to mention employment, into this small town. Read more about it in my piece in the June edition of The Countryman.

It’s all part of the Cromer & Sheringham Crab & Lobster Festival, coming up on the 21^st to 23^rd May, which is a  festival of food, drink, heritage, art and family events including the world’s first pier (as opposed to jetty) crabbing championship. 

The Crawl follows a proven formula  –  the Norwich elephants in 2008; North Walsham’s hippos last year - where the 30 crabs and 42 lobsters are hosted, decorated and displayed by various organisations and commercial concerns who have shelled out for the privilege.

The Food Festival will feature up to 10 chefs daily – including local TV chefs Galton Blackiston and Chris Coubrough – demonstrating on a mobile cooking stage, complete with TV screens, what can be done with these fresh (and sustainable) products.

Read more about crabbing in my piece in Anglia Afloat, out now.            

And with vapour trails are back over north Norfolk after that spot of bother with dust or something, Festival goers will now be able to arrive via Northrepps International. 

………………………… 

February half term. And so to snowy Spain, in the north, in the mountains, following boar tracks.  Fortunately, probably, they stayed ahead.

But we went to El Mazuco through which the Nationalists battled against stiff resistance from outnumbered Republican forces over three weeks in September 1937 when the issue was swung finally with a spot of carpet bombing by the Luftwaffe, a world first, apparently. Franco’s men might not have made it through there otherwise. It’s tough country, just right for the Asturian miners, and even in September, it began to snow and this only five km from the coast. It was more or less frozen solid in February.

Then by a circuitous route over three days – Picos de Europa, Gernika-Lumo and south to through much more snow to Najera – we eventually crossed the Sierra de la Demanda, by then in steady torrential rain, and reached Covarrubias. It’s a nice enough place for the first timer, small, compact, old and vaguely reminiscent of Lavenham if not quite in size and style and without the fringeing modernity. It has a big fiesta in July but in February, the place was deserted. Sure, the Bar del Puente – located suitably enough by the bridge (could be where they got the name? -ed) – had a few in and was doing a decent menu del dia and the two(?) hotels had slight signs of life and likewise the pension which fitted the budget better, though one fifth of the latter’s bar business was a girl with a laptop who loitered over a single Coke for two hours while she used the wi-fi. Otherwise, the town was pretty much empty. The only kids we saw during 18 hours in town were those of the Pension owner.

And what’s this got to do with East Anglia? Well, the second home syndrome of course. This is apparently weekender country for Burgos to the north and, probably, further afield – not so much carpet bombing as carpet bagging.